My father has a business. With that business comes a dumpster.

I have a home I rent. With that rental comes a lapse in trash service because my landlord forgot to pay for said service, so instead of getting annoyed (I am so pragmatic and calm, lookie at me, I am the easiest person in the world) I just decided to take some of my trash hoard to my dad’s business when I went there this weekend so I could dispose of it.

I arrived late at night and waited until daytime to drive the trash down to the dumpster.

When I finally got around to it, it was dark and rainy and chilly. I darted out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and slid the panel back on the dumpster.

And there it was.

The body.

This is a pretty accurate rendition of what actually was in the dumpster:

Twas the scene of the crime

This, however, is what I saw when I looked in the dumpster:

Basically the same thing as reality

Sitting in the far corner of the dumpster was something folded up in a blanket. It obviously hadn’t been tossed in the dumpster, but placed gently as its folds and creases were tidy.

And it smelled.

It smelled, to me, like dead bodies.

So, I did what any rational person would do and called my dad.

“I think you have a dead body in your dumpster!” I cheered.

“WHAT?”

I explained the situation and the stench and he, owner of the world’s weakest stomach, suggested I call the cops.

“No way,” I said.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. I could hear the trepidation in his voice. (He knows me, after all, and was probably remembering how my favorite game as a child was skin graft, where I would draw a vicious burn on a limb and then graft a wet paper towel to the wound.)

“Uh, I’ve seen CSI,” I told him. “I’m gonna poke it. With a stick!”

I then informed him that I needed to put my phone up so that if it was a dead body and I had to run screaming I wouldn’t drop it and hurt it.

Priorities.

So I got a stick and I slid the other side of the dumpster open (no fingerprint damage from me, y’all). Then I leaned into the dumpster, stared at the stinky package, almost weinied out and …

I poked it.

And poked it.

And then began to unfold the blanket.

At this point, I was imagining all sorts of things.  A prom-night baby. Puppies. Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.

None of them were there.

It was just an old, dirty blanket.

Total, heinous, macabre disappointment.

So I tossed my trash in the dumpster and went on home, calling my dad to let him know that I hadn’t found anything interesting, wasn’t going to get to be on television using my most southern accent (“Ah was jus’ threwin my trash out here at deddy’s and I dun found me a dead person! GEORGIA!”) or wouldn’t be writing a best-selling book about it.

“Well, I’m really sorry,” my father told me, his voice dripping in sarcasm. “I’m sorry you didn’t find a body.”

I was glad he felt bad for me.

Oh well. There’s always next time.

I can’t say I’ll miss it.

I thought 2010 was horrible, but a year out, I see it differently. For eight months of 2010, I was the happiest I had ever been, in love for the first time, really, enjoying the company of someone I thought had hung the moon and the stars and everything else around. Then, for those last months, I was devasated.

But in reality, 2011 was harder than 2010 because I have spent the vast majority of it dealing with the fallout of my broken heart, because facts are facts: you can’t just turn loving someone off. And my love lingered, swelled, ebbed and flowed, and the thought that he might someday reach out to contact me allowed that love to cause my chest to ache every day for weeks and months.

And on and on it went for months and months.

It was a loss I was completely unprepared for and have spent a full year rebounding from. I don’t know that I completely have, or will, or what. Maybe this is how you are supposed to feel about that first love. I don’t know. I do know that I wish I could fervently hate him — he deserves it — but I don’t. I do know that I regret the near-year I spent with him. I regret that I loved someone who didn’t deserve it. I regret that I loved someone who saw me as nothing more than a brief interlude in his life. I regret that I shared so many intimate thoughts and positions (heh) with him. I regret that he still crosses my mind, and that I am little enough to hope I cross his, too and he is filled with remorse or regret or something (although I’m sure he doesn’t). I regret that I continued over the last year to not always write exactly what I wanted because I knew people in his life read my blog (You will never be more stealthy than a reporter, I promise). I regret that just the other day, my six year old asked if he would ever see him again. (Actually, I raged at that, and sent a big mental forget you to him over hurting my child.) I regret that I never realized that he sorta looks like young Mr. Burns until months later, because I would really have enjoyed sharing that bit of information with him.

Seriously.

I regret that I have lost this year to that year.

It’s been a year of loss, though, aside from just The Man Who Used My Heart as a Pinata.

We have had losses at work. Many losses, and those stories aren’t mine to tell, but they have affected me just the same.

I’ve lost the relationships with people I loved. One, a friend, who decided to simply fade away. Another, a sister who told me she’d never liked me, never considered me her friend, and simply tolerated me because blood bound us together.

It has been hard to feel rejection from all aspects of life.

On Christmas Eve my most beloved companion, Lucky the whippet, passed away in his sleep. It has been the most difficult thing to deal with, the loss of Lucky Dog. He was my buddy, and the constant in the past year. He was the one being who was always happy to see me. And now, he’s gone.

Now, the little white house I’ve called home for two years has more than one ghost in it. The silence is unnerving. The silence is everywhere. The silence is what’s left.

It seemed as if Lucky’s death was coming on the edge of the clouds finally clearing, and has thrown me back in some strange way.

What do I want from 2012? I don’t know, exactly.

I want there to be more good days, weeks and months. I want the Noodle to keep growing and laughing.

I want to be able to toss those last few things I have, those last few relics, away. There’s a ring in my nightstand that he handed to me one day. Maybe I don’t need to remember anymore.

Maybe, if 2010 was the year of love and 2011 was the year of heartache, then 2012 can be the year of moving on.

So here’s to you, 2012. At least I sometimes see my sense of humor peek out.

“You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all it sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

It was just a picture.

Just a picture of a scene that I’d been present for, just a picture at a scene that I’d helped coordinate. It was just a picture of a person, of a person who I knew most of my life, who knew me in that way that few people ever do, of a person I lost more than two years ago.

I’ve written about him before, about the struggles and trials in his life. I’ve written about him in some of my darkest moments, when I missed him deeply, missed his ability to just let me be and accept that — something that is hard for most people.

Today, somehow, through the magic of Facebook and life, I stumbled across a picture of him, outside my apartment, the summer before he died. He looks so alive, so… him.

And it just rips at my heart.

It puts so many things in perspective. And now, before Christmas, it makes me sniffle, and cry, that picture, but in the end, it makes me smile, because he was my friend, that was my life, and I carry those laughs and times with me until the end.

So today, right before Christmas, I remember. I remember all of those who I’ve lost — the sweet people, the wonderful people, whose families surely are thinking about them every day.

So, today, I think about my friend. As he always said when it was time to go, instead of goodbye or see you later or fare the well — love.

• It’s finally getting cold. I do this thing every year where I try to see if I can outlast last year in terms of how long I can go without heat. Well, this year, kids, I made it until Dec. 10. That’s right. Georgia is a wonderful, wonderful place where it never gets cold, except when it does, and then we all freeze to death and complain about it. A lot.
• Been a little nostalgic lately. Remembering a lot of happiness I had, not despairing about the sorrows I’ve felt. Trying to find the balance to not look back in anger, as Oasis would suggest (Remember that album? What’s the story, Morning Glory? Teenage me loved it. Almost thirty-one-year old me does too, really.)
  
• I’m on Pinterest now. You know, under my real name. Which if you know, awesome. If you don’t, you are totally missing out. Real-life me is super awesome. Anyway. Someone follow me and then explain what I’m supposed to do on aforementioned site. Thank you.
• I need a refrigerator box. I want to build a fort around my desk. I recently purchased a Charlie Brown Christmas tree, single ornament and everything, and think a fort would really complete the look over here in my corner of the world.
• Bleacher vs. my almost six-year-old boy. Bleacher wins. They actually GLUED the child back together. It’s like my child is Humpty Dumpty. It’s awesome.

The pie has been shared.

The belt has been unbuckled.

(Cue porn music. Oh wait. That’s my OTHER blog.)

And now, now friends, we are on the fast sprint to Christmas. That’s right. We are almost there.

The tree has been decorated by yours truly and her wee minion. (Although, seriously? Decorating a Christmas tree when it’s 75 degrees outside, after you went out to lunch and sat in the sun? A little weird. BUT AWESOME. Unlike today, where there is a threat of wintry mix? NOT AS AWESOME. Cue crazed southern rush on store for bread, milk and eggs. FRENCH TOAST PARTY IN GEORGIA!)

I am serious about the holidays. All the time. Seriously.

I have eggnog at home.

And now, now it is time to begin my FAVORITE holiday tradition. Family time? Good lord, no. Homemade gifts? I can’t understand pinterest to do that. Lots of drinking? Tempting, but no.

UGA tree, because UGA people have UGA trees which WIN WIN WIN no matter what

It. Is. Time. For. HOLIDAY MOVIES.

Yeeeeeeeessssss.

And I’m not talking about your Christmas Stories or your Rudolphs. Heeeeyull no, I am talking about the made-for-tv-flicks you find on Lifetime and Hallmark.

I. LOVE. THEM.

Like … The Christmas Card!

Or … All I Want for Christmas!

Or … A Grandpa for Christmas!

This is where I will be for the next month. Alone, on my couch, with the dog draped over me like a blanket, sniffling at the happy endings, wiping potato chip crumbs from my chest as I reach over to toss one more chewed-up toothpick into the floor, crying about how I most certainly will die alone and not get my Christmas boyfriend in my stocking.

THIS. is my holiday spirit.

I am so excited.

Now, to break out the footie pajamas.

So a few weeks ago, Noah was sitting in the backseat of my vehicle, when he oh-so-casually asked me to take him to church.

You can’t really refuse a request like that, y’know?

So I got online and started looking at churches, just like I google everything else in my life. I didn’t want some stuffiness. I didn’t want judgment. I like the gays. I am pro-choice. I’m a drinker, and a curser and a sometimes-hedonist … I didn’t really know if I would find a church that would appeal to me.

So I googled “most liberal church in Athens, GA”

I know. You aspire for your religious walk to be like mine.

At least I’m honest.

Anyway. I found a church, and I took Noah, and he loves it loves it loves it, so we keep going back. And I’ve been reticent to get way too involved, to listen too hard, because I was afraid of what I might hear.

You see, I was raised as a Christian. I am a firm believer that Jesus had excellent ideas. I have a major problem with a lot of Christians these days, though, and so … yeah.

But this church, I couldn’t help but like it, even for little things. And then, on Sunday, the pastor spoke about Nehemiah, who rebuilds this wall around a city despite efforts to foil him.

He rebuilds this wall, and there are no gaps in it.

For the past year, well over now, I’ve tried to rebuild whatever was torn down inside of me. I’ve worked on fencing and wall-building and recovery, and I think I’m doing okay until I hear something or see something or smell something, and then I feel completely lost. I feel so angry. I feel so betrayed. And I’ve realized this anger and betrayal goes much deeper than because of The Man Who Used My Heart for a Pinata. It goes to me, to my parents, to my raising, to my God. It goes to a deep, dark, insecure place that lives inside me, that always told me I was too difficult, too uninteresting, too this or that, to have someone love me unconditionally. And then, when I met Shanon, I felt like I could love someone. And then, when he walked away from me, I collapsed, and all those little evil thoughts were finally, definitely justified and oh! catharsis! in some strange backwards way.

Finally, I was my own self-fulfilling prophecy.

But the fact of the matter is that while he did damage me in some way that I’m still not entirely sure of (I see glimpses, in my inability to trust, inability to relax, inability to be forthright, inability to be touched, inability to be who I was before he was) I have used his deceit to further damage myself.

I have wallowed.

I still wallow.

Obviously.

Why? Because I am good at wallowing. I am good at being broken hearted. I am good at being sad, at feeling dark, angry things, at writing sad poetry and being tortured and frowning and being damaged. The early-twentieth-century writer who lives in me thrives on this, and somehow, somewhere, along the lines, that person became this person — the one I am dealing with on a daily basis instead of during creative spurts.

But, Sunday, sitting in church, not wanting to listen to the sermon, not wanting to apply it to my life, not wanting to even be there but rather be on my couch watching a Law & Order: SVU marathon, fantasizing about hot angry cop sex with Elliot Stabler (because, seriously, y’all, who doesn’t?) I thought about the way my mind had veered and turned.

I have gone from sobbing, to “I’ll never love again!” to “I dislike you a great deal, thanks for not deleting the history on my laptop” to “Maybe I should post every single email and conversation we ever had, just because” to “Maybe I should just DELETE all that shit and stop being a crazy person” to “Who cares anymore? It was all a joke to him, which takes the meaning out of things anyway” to where I was sitting on Sunday, which was with a heart that was both heavy and carefree.

So I took a deep breath, and I asked God — the one who I have been so very angry at for fourteen months — to help a girl out.

Who knows what will happen … I know what I’d like to have happen: peace. I don’t want anything tangible. I just want to feel at peace.

 “But I realized they were plotting to harm me, so I replied by sending this message to them: I am engaged in a great work, so I can’t come. Why should I stop working to come and meet with you?” Chapter 6, verse 2

Seriously.

I am a giant child about Halloween. And while last year, I was Captain Doldrums and the Doldrums Parade, this year, I have tried to be happier. Cheerier. And it has worked.

Saturday night, of Montreal, the 40 Watt, glow sticks and alcohol and dance dance dancing.

Glowing mustaches are so hot right now.

Most excellent and awesome of Montreal at the most excellent and awesome 40 Watt Cloooob.

And this morning, on the actual Halloween, I awoke and went the route of the journalistic ringmistress. You know, like you see all the time.

I apparently have a mustache fetish. Heh.

And tonight? Well, I’ll just save that for another day.

The only down part of the past week has been a brief moment, a moment of loveliness, when a quite dashing man asked me for coffee, and we went and walked and he grabbed my hand and rubbed my neck, and ever so gently kissed my lips in between bites of blueberry donuts and sips of chai latte. As he asked me spend more time with him, I told him I couldn’t — responsibility called — and he replied with, “We could fall in love today.” And oh! I sighed, because at one point in life I believed it could be that easy, but now … well now, I am no longer sure.

But I cling to the hope that one day it will be that easy.

So go, have a safe and happy Halloween, and tomorrow I’ll show you how I was a Mormon for Halloween.

Hilarity.

And hopefulness.

it’s officially october now.

FINALLY.

let us move on down this path then, shall we?

let us talk about tomorrow, or the next day, or a week or a month from now, because i think it’s time.

i’ve given myself enough time. i realized that recently.

nothing changes, no one turns into what you believe them to be.

so all you can do is be who you are, who you think you might be and lean on your friends and lovelies and forget your debit card at little kings and dance, dance, dance and wake up in the morning. and then you look ahead, at next week, and there’s more dancing with friends and laughing and holding on to the little threads and thank goodness for those new boots because you look cute and you can laugh and you might never be as lighthearted by by god you’ve given one year, two years really, and now, well now it’s time to dance.

isn’t it?

It’s been a year.

An entire year since I sat before this same computer screen and wrote these words:

“Let me tell you a little story.

Nine months ago, I fell in love with a man. I never, ever thought it could happen. I never thought I would feel the way that I did — but I did.

God, how I fell.

And he seemed to have fallen for me. The words he spoke, the things he said to me — my heart ached from how I fell for him.

I would have done anything for him.

… Today that all came to a crashing end in a way more unbelievable than I could ever thought.

I believed the soft words, the forehead kisses.

I believed we were still okay two days ago, in my bed. When I spent the weekend with him, when I ate dinner with him and he told my son he would see him later.

I believed this morning, when I texted him.

And now, I don’t know what to believe.

… The most horrible part of it all is that I loved him, dear God how I loved him, and even though in this moment where I absofuckinglutely hate him, I don’t want bad things to happen to him.

I feel so used. I feel so, so stupid. I feel taken advantage of. Take my bed, take my food, let me watch your pets, take my body … and all the while you aren’t really even here.

I never wear my heart on my sleeve, ever ever.

But I did this year. This year, I would have done anything in the world for this person, would have given him anything, but that wasn’t enough.”